


Incy Wincy Spider

by thatsthefrailtyofgenius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Break Up AU, Exes to Lovers, M/M, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsthefrailtyofgenius/pseuds/thatsthefrailtyofgenius
Summary: Its Potter’s bleeptone.Except its actually the fucking whatmakesyouhaha.mp3 that’s been going off at 3am once a week – sometimes a fortnight – for the past three months.Sometimes its Potter drunk texting him about how he never needed him anyway. Sometimes it’s Potter finding a spider in the bath in the middle of the night.





	Incy Wincy Spider

**Author's Note:**

> This has been giving me hell and it turned out to be a bit more angsty than originally intended. But its still not too bad, and its really just about H&D working through their issues and sorting through some miscommunication. With some fluff and humour added in to keep it as light as possible. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, even if it did take me a while. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and thank you.  
> Dee xx

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

* * *

 

Draco growls.

He flips over in bed and grabs at his phone, blindly stabbing at his lockscreen despite already knowing exactly what the text message is going to say.

Its Potter’s bleeptone; whatmakesyouhaha.mp3 has been going off at 3am once a week – sometimes a fortnight – for the past three months.

Sometimes its Potter drunk texting him about how he never needed him anyway. Sometimes it’s Potter finding a spider in the bath where he sits in the early hours of the morning when his insomnia is bad.

Gritting his teeth, Draco sits up, running a hand through his hair to push it from his forehead where it’s starting to get long again. He drops his phone in his lap and draws in a few grounding breaths, hating the angsty stir of his gut and trying to quell the anger and pain flooding his veins. All a bit much to process when he’s only been awake for about twenty seconds.

He never ignores him though.

The thing is, Potter is ill. Or… can be ill. Depending on the way certain things happen in his life. Most of their friends are actually. In fact, Draco would be hard pressed to think of anyone he’s acquainted with that isn’t dealing with a particularly shitty bout of PTSD nowadays, including himself.

Naturally, however, Potter struggles a lot more than most. So although sometimes it might look, to others, as though he’s managing his illness well with the meds he’s taking and meetings with a therapist, small things can be big things and cause him to spiral.

Like a spider in the bath at 3am.

Draco tries every time to switch his phone off and go back to sleep. He really fucking tries. But he suspects that even if Potter was a high functioning member of neurotypical society, Draco would still be incapable of neglecting him when he's down.

At least, as things are right now anyway.

Three months isn’t quite enough time to be fully over a two-year relationship.

Draco hates him. He really, honestly does. But somewhere within those two years, Potter had rubbed off on him and he finds it much more difficult these days to turn his head away from damsels in distress.

Whatever, he’ll shake it off when he’s back in his stride.

Right now, however, he has an arachnophobic ex-boyfriend to go and kill a spider for.

* * *

 

Harry huffs as he grabs his keys and phone, shoving them in the pockets of his skinnies and hastily tying his messy bed curls up in a loose bun, grumbling about the two that escape to dangle either side of his face.

He’s late for meeting Hermione and he’s hanging out of his ass because Ron had dragged him out again last night. Which means she’s now going to tear both of them new ones if he doesn’t get his shit together pronto.

Only problem is Bruno, their – fuck, _his_ dog, is trailing around his knees making pitiful sounds and pouting up at him. That is, if dogs could pout. Bruno would definitely be a pouter.

Harry is about to leave the apartment before he realises he’s topless, and that it’s probably not socially acceptable to go out like that in the middle of March in London. He grabs randomly at a discarded t-shirt from the top of the armchair and tugs it haphazardly over his head.

He tries to block out the glare Bruno shoots him as he shrugs into his shearling jacket and closes the door behind him, sprinting down the stairs. He quickly jumps in the car, not feeling apparation this early in the morning, and needing a bit of time doing something steadily mundane to wake up properly.

It’s a bitch to find a decent parking space in Westfield on a Saturday, but he gets one eventually, after flipping off some asshole who shouts a very rude slur at him.

“I’m not even from Pakistan, you knob,” he grumbles as he slams the car door behind him a bit more viciously than is necessary. He lights a fag as he makes his way down the steps to ground floor, spending a minute shivering because its colder than he anticipated, shifting from foot to foot before flicking his cig to the side and venturing indoors.

He gets out his phone to text Hermione and let her know he’s nearing Starbucks, but smacks straight into some poor, unsuspecting stranger, hissing in pain as his ducked forehead bounces off of a pointy chin.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Fuck, I should-”

“Christ,” Draco curses, rubbing at his chin as Harry feels his insides churn a bit.

“Of course,” Harry says, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his tone, “as if my day wasn’t going shitty enough already.”

“That’s a compliment,” Draco snaps back at him. “If you’ve broken my face, Potter, you’re paying for it.”

“You have your face insured, you bellend.”

“As should everyone. It’s just good sense.”

“Piss off. Uggh. I’m still late. Look, I’d love to stay and chat-”

“You’re still a shite liar, Potter.”

Harry just grits his teeth and breathes in sharply through his nose.

“I’m leaving.”

“Good. If you’re looking for Granger, she’s in Starbucks.”

“Yes,” Harry says, “I’m fucking aware of that, thank you. Shit, this hurts. Why are – stop looking at me like that. What are – stop _smirking_.”

“I’m not smirking.”

“Yes, you are.”

“This is just my face, Potter.”

Harry squirms a bit.

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I am,” Harry growls, pouting and feeling extremely self-conscious about the suddenly amused, shit eating grin that’s quirking the left of his ex-boyfriend’s mouth. He hates it when he does that without explaining what’s funny. He hates him. So much.

Not at all, in fact.

Instead, he brushes past him a little too forcefully and cracks his neck, his stomach feeling more and more volatile by the minute. He can feel Draco’s eyes on his back as he walks as fast as possible through the throng of civilians, already craving another cigarette and weary that he’s now about twenty minutes late to his coffee date with Hermione.

It’s only when he nears the outside seating area that he realises what Draco was smirking at.

The t-shirt Harry grabbed off the armchair in a hurry is his.

* * *

 

Spring cleaning is what Draco decides he needs to do to make himself feel better.

Well, winter cleaning. Details shmetails.

So, when he wakes up wanting to repeatedly smash his head against the brick wall of his apartment; he dresses in a pair of black leggings and his baggiest checked shirt, grumpily chomps on a slice of toast, makes himself a coffee, and sits down in their – shit, _his_ bedroom.

The floor should really be cold, considering its varnished oak wood, but he’d paid extra for underfloor heating when they’d bought the flat, so it’s actually nice to settle on as he drags some empty cardboard boxes from the corner and gets to work clearing out the cupboards.

He clicks his fingers to get his laptop to start playing music when the silence gets a little too deafening, and sips intermittently at his drink, not too bothered when it burns his throat a little on the way down.

Arya slinks around giving him cautious glances, her tail waving elegantly in the air like she knows something he doesn’t and is worried about when the penny drops. He glares at her but she just hops up on the bed and settles, watching him through her one eye.

Sometime during a soft boyband ballad, it starts to snow outside, clustering in the corners of the condensated old window panes. He draws in a deep sigh when he notices, pushing his hair from his face and humming under his breath as he moves a bunch of documents he no longer needs to the rubbish bag.

Crosslegged and singing absently to something about wanting to write someone a song, he remembers the loose floorboard they’d designated for their more important belongings, and struggles for a few seconds trying to pry it up. When it comes out, a cloud of dust billows with it, dancing and twirling in the air in the garish light of London’s winter flooding the room with a crisp, companionable sort of mundanity.

Draco watches for a few moments, the way the particles dispense and float around each other, transfixed by the morning’s stupor still making him blank out occasionally.

Shaking himself from the daydream, he scoots a little closer and lifts the wooden box from its cranny.

It’s a beautiful old thing; worn, scratched to oblivion, but still etched with intricate patterns that weave in and around one another, deeper in some places, and the one heirloom Potter has of his parents.

That awful giraffe woman had given it to him for his twenty first birthday.

Draco remembers the look on Potter’s face when she had handed it to him at the end of a truly disastrous evening spent attempting to build bridges with what had become his estranged family.

As much as Draco had hated those bastards for how deeply they’d fucked Potter up, he’d been unable to muster the fervour to despise her quite so much in those few seconds that the realisation had dawned on Potter’s face. The pure adoration, the joy, the sadness. To this day, Draco thinks it had been her final apology. Nowhere near adequate for the years they had locked him in that bloody closet, of course, but if there was anything that could ever have come close, it had been this.

This lovely, ancient, magic little thing, with love carved into its soul.

It had been empty, as far as Draco had been aware, but Arya jumps off the bed and he drops it.

Scrambling to grab at it and make sure it’s not even more damaged, a glint of silver flashes in the light.

His whole body freezes.

His heart stops in his chest.

His breath hitches in his throat and the world seizes to turn.

Every pulse of his blood in his veins feels like the slow, heavy thud of a drum calling wanderers home. Somewhere, the music continues to play, but it sounds like he’s underwater; like he’s drifting in a suspended moment of time where nothing is real apart from the featherlight weight of his limbs and the caress of stillness that keeps him in stasis.

Arya nudging at his knee with the tip of her nose breaks him from the pause. Her meowing, shrill and insistent, cuts through the fog and has him gasping, suddenly, for air; upthrusted to reality as the world comes crashing down.

Fingers shaking, he reaches out to touch the metal, withdrawing them upon contact, as though he hadn’t expected it to really be there. Arya paws at his thigh though, and he hisses at her before reaching out again, holding it in front of his face.

He thumbs the dust from the band and squints, trying to read the inscription on the inside.

Pain throbs in his chest, lodging a lump in his oesophagus and making it even harder for him to breathe.

‘ _The right choice_ ’

“Fuck,” he manages, the sound coming out strangled, like there are warm hands around his neck squeezing. Like suddenly someone has sucked all the air from the room, like he’s dying, but worse.

“Fuck,” he repeats, closing his hand around the ring and holding it above his breast plate.

He has no idea how long it’s been there, or even if it was ever meant to be discovered. But he knows it’s for him. He knows even without slipping it on that its exactly his size.

Or was.

Was.

Past tense.

Not anymore.

* * *

 

Harry doesn’t know why he agrees to it.

It’s a fucking awful idea. One of the worst Hermione’s ever had if he’s being honest. He tells her so, because he’s angry and petty like that, and because he’s not good at saying no to her.

So mostly he’s just pissed off at himself.

Regardless, it’s an incredulously shitty idea and he is beyond stroppy when he arrives twenty minutes early at Hermione’s flat in Camden with a bottle of wine in his hand and a box of fresh sushi for a platter she’s got half laid out on her dining table.

“Harry!” She exclaims as the door swings open and her hand fists in the loose silk fabric of his beige white shirt, dragging him inside with such force that he thinks he might have whiplash. “Thank god you’re here! A few people turned up early and I’m not a particularly good host when I don’t have you or Ronald in the general vicinity. Good, you brought red.”

She snatches the alcohol and food out of his hands and shoves him toward the lounge without so much as an apology, acting as though he’s happy to be here. He really hates her sometimes. Occasionally. Never, really. But she is infuriating.

“Potter,” a voice filled with warm teasing slaps him across the face, and he immediately feels his mouth curl up at the corners, his eyes determinedly avoiding the corner of the room he doesn’t want to look at. Or the person. Whatever.

“Patil,” he grins, winking at Parvati as he approaches her and accepts her kiss to his cheek and shameless pat to his bum.

“How goes?”

“Not bad,” he lies. “You sort that dickhead boss of yours out yet?”

“Define sort?” She says, dragging her teeth over her bottom lip and swigging from the bottle of Kopperberg in her hand.

“I mean, did you tell him off?”

“In… certain ways yes.”

Harry feels laughter bubbling and tumbling from his lips and he shakes his head, leaning the back of his thighs against the back of the sofa and locking his ankles together in front of him.

“You shagged him, didn’t you?”

“Only after he fired me,” she insists, waving her drink in his general direction. “I want it known I have principles.”

“Of course,” Harry humours her, “very respectable.”

“Always,” she nods, feigning seriousness. “You sort your shit out with the ferret yet?”

He feels his mood plummet again, but the ghost of a smile, frozen bitterly in place, remains there. He swallows, shrugging and ducking his head before looking up again, drawing in a shuddery breath, the edges of an ache twanging in his chest.

“Nothing’s changed since the last time I saw you,” he wets his lips and runs a hand through his hair, shaking it forward then realigning it to the side, his fingers coming up to absently play with the curls dangling over his collarbones. “We’re still not good for each other.”

“You are the dumbest piece of shit I’ve ever known if you actually believe that,” she snorts, in typically blunt Parvati fashion.

“Y’know, I’d rather we didn’t talk about it? I’m ashamed of us. We should be able to pass the Bechdel test.”

“One,” she points out, kicking at his feet and moving to stand between his legs, “you are a man; it doesn’t apply to you. Two, you still look like a puppy with its tail snipped so of course I’m going to call you out for your self-inflicted dudepain. Three – that was my subtle way of asking if he’s on the market because I go to his gym and those trackie bottoms leave zilch to the imagination, my friend, zil-”

“Okay,” he interrupts grabbing at her wrists to stop her gesturing and getting closer to his face in an attempt to invade his bubble, inwardly cursing at the jealousy that flares up, “okay, okay. Jesus fuck. Fine. Fine. I get your bloody point.”

“Good,” she smirks. “Because that’s all I wanted to say. You are both idiots and you know you should be together. So now we can move on and we can talk about this new legislation I’m trying to push through the Wizengamot…”

He loves listening to Parvati talk. At least, when she isn’t forcing him to admit he’s miserable. She’s one of the most expressive people he’s ever known, and she’s so clever and interesting in such a confident and seamless manner; he thinks he could listen to her tell him about her court adventures forever.

Soon however, the room really starts to fill, and it’s not long before he’s on his third can of Fosters having to raise his voice to ask Dean if he’s asked Seamus to marry him yet like everyone knows he’s going to at some point.

“Shh,” Dean waves wildly at him as Ginny laughs at something Hermione says and splutters because her vodka and coke goes up her nose.

“Finnigan is having a piss, Thomas, you’re safe. And Potter’s right; you’re not exactly subtle about it.”

Harry refuses to let himself freeze up or outwardly react to the sudden injection of Draco’s voice as he appears randomly at Harry’s back. Draco's hand splays in the small of it just for a moment as he uses his body to anchor him whilst he grabs the bottle of Malibu from the buffet table, pouring himself another drink.

Electric impulses fizzle out warm over Harry’s skin, raising the hairs at the back of his neck and making him involuntarily shiver. He manages to cover it with a fake sneeze, and glares when Draco shoots him a knowing glance from the corner of his eye.

“I’m not trying to be!” Dean snaps, looking around like someone’s bugging him and recording their every word. “Just keep your voices down. I’ve got it planned for next weekend.”

“You said that last weekend,” Harry points out.

“And the weekend before,” Draco remarks.

“And the weekend before that.”

“I’m – fuck, you assholes. You're not even together anymore and you still team up to be mean. I _know_. I’m – it has to be right,” Dean huffs, standing in closer so they aren’t overhead. “It has to be perfect.”

“Is it ever perfect though?” Harry laughs slightly, still desperately trying to ignore the heat coming off Draco’s body where there’s barely an inch between them. “I mean; you can plan it to a tee. But I don’t think there’s ever going to be a right moment. It’s not really something you can plan for. Otherwise you’d never do it.”

Draco lets out a sharp, choked laugh from his left, so close Harry feels the breath of it across his ear, and he whips his head around, confused and annoyed and a little panicked, although he’s not quite sure why.

“What?” Harry demands, and Dean is looking at them now like they’re an unclipped grenade.

“What?” Draco replies, failing to look even remotely innocent, and clearly peeved about something that’s just been said.

“No,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “You laughed at something. I didn’t say anything funny.”

“You never do,” Draco deadpans and Harry goes to open his mouth but Dean holds up his hands.

“Nope,” he says. “Nope. I’m out. You two angry fuck or whatever it is you do these days. Goodbye. Checking out.”

Draco goes to snap at him, but Harry flicks him on the forehead, reclaiming his attention and ignoring the fury flooding his face.

“You found something funny. So what joke did I tell?”

“It’s nothing, Potter,” he says seriously, dangerously, in a way that sends a shudder through Harry's entire body, sets his blood to a low simmer, makes him want to scream.

“Clearly it is,” Harry’s voice comes out rougher than he means it too.

“Drop it.”

“That’s what we _do_ , isn’t it?” Harry spits, seething, feeling his heart speeding up and his cheeks flushing with anger. “Drop it. When it’s important. We just drop it.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know.”

“You can’t say shit, Potter. All that malarkey about it ‘never being the right moment.’”

“That’s – I don’t know what-”

“Bullshit,” Draco hisses through his teeth, huddled in so no one not paying attention can hear them, his finger prodding harshly at the centre of Harry’s chest, tugging on the last threads of his temper. “That is _bullshit_. You practice what you preach or you shut your mouth.”

Harry’s brain short-circuits and all there is in the throng of loud chatter continuing around them, is Draco’s breath and the way it ghosts over his face, the intense, painful, anger in his eyes. And something else. Something he’s never been good at masking, something Harry knows Draco is ashamed of.

“Draco-”

“It doesn’t matter-”

Just as he makes to leave and Harry starts to grab at his arm, Parvati stands on the coffee table and yells, “TRUTH OR DARE, LADS, PICK YOUR POISON!”

* * *

 

“I hate this game,” Ron grumbles from Harry’s left where they’re squeezed in on the sofas. “Everyone always picks truth and the dares get more ridiculous and embarrassing the more pissed everyone gets.”

“Alright, party shitter,” Pansy Parkinson says with a devious smirk as she leans forward from her perch on the armchair beside Blaise, who has a very nervous looking Neville in his lap. “Make a better suggestion.”

“Isn’t never have I ever better?” Dean suggests, preening under Seamus’ fingers lazily carding through his hair.

“Weasley hates that one too,” Parkinson remarks, “his mother’s done more outrageous shit than he has.”

“Fuck you-”

“Chill your grill, my brethren,” Hannah Abbot pipes in as she comes to sit down on the floor beside Parvati. “Let’s learn here on this day.”

“Like how to stop talking like a frat boy with a hand up his cunt?”

“Don’t be repulsive,” Hermione tuts at Draco, but there’s a hint of amusement twitching at the corners of her mouth nonetheless.

“I’ll go first,” Seamus says. “Never have I ever… drank my body weight in alcohol.”

“That’s cheating! That’s cheating, he’s Irish! He’s cheating-”

“How is he cheating if he has to drink too?”

Draco snatches Pansy’s shot glass out of her hand and chucks it back, wincing as he swallows. There’s a resounding cheer but he flips them all off and gestures for them to get on with it too.

“Never have I ever… danced naked in public.”

There are less people that drink this time, but Harry just manages to block out the anxiety of his fight with Draco to laugh when Hermione swigs heavy on her bottle of cherry Lambrini, rolling her eyes at the jeering and jostling of her arms. Hannah, Blaise, Padma, and Dean also drink.

“Did you all do it together?”

“No,” Blaise drawls, “although I’d be quite happy to arrange it. Granger, what say you?”

“I say dream on, darling,” she replies, and Parvati makes an ‘aaaaaaaaaay’ sound, requesting a high five.

“Never have I ever fucked someone I know I shouldn’t have.”

Every single person in the room drinks to that, some of them even sharing guilty, mildly tickled expressions, winks and nudges and rolling eyes.

“Never have I ever planned to propose to someone and not told them or never done it.”

The room goes dead silent. Static buzzes in the air around them and Harry can hear his own wild heartbeat in his ears, his stomach turning over. He swallows on a dry throat but can’t drink to wet it, not wanting to be the first to break the chain.

“Guys, c’mon, this is supposed to be fun. Why are you ruining it?”

Harry feels his face getting redder and redder and his world tilting on its axis. There’s – there’s no way he could know. He’d hidden it. He’d never even hinted. Not told another soul that he was planning… God, it was so fucking long ago now. A whole year.

“Alright, break it up, break it up,” Hermione sighs eventually, standing from her chair. “Put the music back on. Scatter. Come on.”

Everyone starts moving, grateful for the instruction, and business fills the space again, leaving Harry and Draco sat still, at opposite ends of the sofa, not looking at each other.

“I – I don’t know how – what am I supposed to say?”

“Nothing,” Draco says, resignation heartbreakingly thick in his tone now. “You’re not supposed to say anything. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does,” Harry can’t stop the words from coming out, “it matters because you’re hurting and it’s my fault.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter.”

“I’m not. I know when you’re in pain. I never – I never wanted – look,” Harry draws in a deep breath, futily hoping it will soothe him, “I should have told you when I left. I should – there are a lot of things I should have said but didn’t. I think you might have misunderstood, though, which is understandable but... please don’t ever think I didn’t ask you because I didn’t want you, or because I decided I didn’t ever want to marry you. That was never the case. Even when I hated you I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you," Harry tells him.

This seems to be the cut off point for Draco, and he doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t even look at Harry, just gets up and leaves. A few moments later, the front door slams and he flinches, feeling the noise like an electric shock and waiting only a couple of minutes before giving up on trying to save face, and leaving for his own home; tired, freshly heartbroken, and wanting nothing more than to shove his face in a pillow and not face anyone or anything ever again.

* * *

 

A taxi whooshes past as Draco steps down off the curb, delving his hands in the pockets of his Givenchy trench and lifting his shoulders against the rain turning the remaining snow to mush on the ground.

Shifting from foot to foot as he attempts to unlock the front door, he almost falls through it, hurriedly shutting it behind him and stumbling slightly up the stairs. He can hear Arya whining before he enters the apartment, and he huffs as his knees click when he crouches down to scratch behind her ears.

He’s starting to feel wretched now.

His joints are stiff with an unbearable ache and his head is so heavy it could be completely stuffed with tissue paper. His limbs feel all weird and detached and his nose will not stop fucking running, his stomach clenching every now and again so he’s had to avoid throwing up in Harrods whilst shopping for his mother’s Christmas present.

“I know, I know,” he grumbles as Arya makes a disapproving noise at him for almost losing his balance. He saves the first time, but when his vision goes blurry again he can’t centre himself, and ends up hammering backward, led weight landing on his backside and only just stopping his head from smacking against the wall.

Pain throbs along his synapses and his lungs whistle, making a rattling sound on the edge of each inhale. Embarrassingly, he wants nothing more than to break down into sobs, his body having given up on him completely at this point.

Arya comes to stand in his lap and he only just gets his phone out to clumsily bring up Potter’s number before his world goes dark, his thumb still pressed down on the C button.

* * *

 

Draco wakes slowly, sluggishly, like he’s being dragged through marshland.

Every inch of his body is drenched in a thin layer of cold sweat, and his mouth tastes like something rotted on his tongue.

The smell of tomatoes tickles at his nostrils and its only when Arya’s weight drops down near his feet that he moves to sit up, paused when his body protests and his lungs reject the action, something scraping at the back of his throat causing him to start coughing.

A large, warm hand cradles the back of his head and neck with a gentle but solid pressure, another pressing between his shoulder blades, the touch so familiar and loving that he knows without even having to look up, who it is.

Carefully, he’s helped to sit up against the headboard, and its then that he registers being dressed in soft pyjama fabric, the long-sleeved pullover very clearly not his own. He doesn’t have the energy to care though; it smells like Potter, and it’s so fucking comforting that denying himself the simple pleasure is out of the question.

“Easy,” Potter says, concern coating his low drawl, the back of his hand coming up to Draco’s forehead. He bats it away feebly.

“Why the fuck does it honk like a bloody fruit farm in my flat?”

“Don’t be a bitch about it, I’m making soup.”

Draco’s stomach betrays him by making a loud noise of longing and he slumps a bit, huffing as Arya comes to sit on his thighs above the duvet, and he absently, miserably scratches behind her ears.

“Wonderful, poison a dying man.”

“You’re such a fucking drama queen. You like my soup anyway, so stop complaining.”

“No,” Draco snaps simply, but Potter just huffs, rolling his eyes.

Draco hates how gorgeous he looks, with his curls tucked behind his head in a loose hairband, brown skin slightly flush from the heat of the kitchen, the arms of his loose silk button down rolled up to the elbows to reveal the intricate lines of the dragon inked around his wrist.

“Drink,” Potter instructs, handing him a mug of hot chocolate at just the right temperature, along with two ibuprofen and a paracetamol. Draco, for once, does as he’s told, and only just refrains from letting out a slow moan as he swallows, the rich warmth soothing his throat immediately.

“What happened? The last thing I remember is getting in from shopping.”

“You passed out,” Potter says, his tone mildly amused and slightly disapproving. “Apparently you thought it was a good idea to go traipsing around Knightsbridge when you clearly have the flu.”

“Piss off,” Draco says coldly, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. Pretty or not, Potter has no fucking right to look at him with those chastising eyes anymore. He’d given up that allowance when he’d fucking left.

“Are you going to make me?” Potter raises one eyebrow, and Draco grits his teeth in an effort not to start yelling and pass out again.

“Are you going to refuse to leave? Because that would be incredibly ironic of you, Potter.”

“Don’t bite the hand feeding you,” Potter stands, disappearing for a few minutes before returning with a tray playing host to a bowl of steaming soup, and buttered slices of bread. Draco has little choice but to let Potter place it on his lap, starting to eat. Potter moves about the room, turning on the air purifier and tidying around a bit, obviously feeling awkward. Good. He deserves it.

“You can go now,” Draco says, not looking at him and despising how amazing the food tastes. “Your conscience is clear. I’m just going to eat and sleep and vomit for the next forty-eight hours.”

“I’m alright where I am, thanks,” Potter shrugs nonchalantly, sitting back down on the mattress beside Draco’s hip.

“I hate you,” Draco lies, resisting the urge to throw a piece of bread at him.

“I know,” Potter says simply, and that’s that.

* * *

 

“Why didn’t you get it removed?”

Potter looks sideways at him, confused for a moment. Judge Rinder plays on the TV in the background and Draco has his legs resting on Potter’s thighs, a faux mink blanket draped over them. Potter’s feet are up on the mahogany coffee table in front of the sofa they’re settled on, and they’ve been sat like this for over an hour now.

Draco had insisted on being moved to the lounge so he wouldn’t go out of his mind with boredom, and Potter is still refusing to leave.

“Hmm?”

“The dragon,” Draco says, not meeting his eyes, looking instead at Potter’s delicate wrist. “Why didn’t you get it removed?”

Potter looks alarmed for a few seconds before he swallows, blinks, then shrugs, breath shaky as he drags it in through his nose.

“I didn’t want to. It felt too important.”

“You got it to represent me, Potter.”

“Precisely.”

Oh.

Right.

Fuck.

“You’re unreal,” Draco huffs once his heart has stopped hurting so much. “You are legitimately the world’s most idiotic masochist.”

“You _want_ me to get it removed?” Potter raises one eyebrow at him, and Draco grits his teeth, looking back at the TV and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Your body,” Draco fails at nonchalance, “do whatever the fuck you want with it.”

“I didn’t get rid of it because I don’t want to erase you from my life, you twat.” Potter slumps a bit where he’s sat, his hand still resting on Draco’s ankle like he’s forgotten it’s there. “However much it stings; we still happened and we were still good. For as long as we lasted, we were _in love_ , you dumbass. What makes you think I’d ever want to forget that?”

“Speak for yourself,” Draco deadpans, attempting to cover up the way his eyes are watering and his stomach clenches. “I was only ever with you for your impeccable blow jobs.”

Potter snorts, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, tutting.

“I was trying to be honest with you. Must you cheapen it?”

“You were being stupid. I didn’t ask you for a declaration of your dead adoration. I was asking you why you’d keep a tattoo you got for your ex-boyfriend.”

“And I answered the question,” Potter says simply, “but thanks, my blow jobs really are quite incredible.”

Draco scowls at him but they fall quiet again. They spend the rest of the day like that, watching bad television and bickering, with Potter confiscating his tobacco and forcing him to eat vegetables and drink some horrible juice concoction for ‘electrolytes’.

Come fiveish, Draco feels his eyes getting heavy again, and his head hurting. Potter fetches him some more ibuprofen and he falls asleep like that, wrapped in an impossibly warm throw with his feet tucked under the inside of Potter’s thighs.

* * *

 

Draco tugs the lime green fabric of his blazer back into place as he checks his hair in the mirror, righting a stray strand and spelling it to stay.

Nerves tingle in his gut but it’s too late for him to not show up now, and instead he focuses on how good he looks, because sue him, this suit is fucking incredible. Its tailoured to fit like a skin, and the trousers are cropped at the ankles, dark green loafers on his feet. The get up has a silvery quality to it too, overlaid with dark green florals, without paling him out too white.

It had been ridiculously expensive, but it’s an important night, and it requires a statement.

In his left ear, there’s a metal snake curled around the shell to pierce the lobe, and Blaise has drawn subtle eyeliner on for him, completing the ensemble to make him look shamelessly flamboyant, but also slightly dangerous.

“Are you done peacocking yet or do I have to drag you out of here by that hideous piece of metal?”

Blaise’s voice doesn’t alarm him as he flips him the bird, but follows him out anyway.

He’s dressed in a dark blue turtle neck and blazer, with dark skinny jeans and brogues. He looks classically handsome as usual, but somehow approachable; like he could take someone’s mother to Zumba and wait in the car park for her to be done.

“You’re alright?” Blaise stops him as he locks the door to the apartment. “You’re not going to lose your head?”

“I’m fine,” Draco says through gritted teeth, “stop asking me that if you want to keep your bollocks attached to your body.”

“So that’s a no, then?” Blaise smirks at him, but his hand squeezes at his shoulder as they make their way down the stairs and out into the cold night air. There’s a sleek black car waiting for them, and Draco forces his hands to stop shaking as they climb in and pull out onto the main road.

“You’re a dumbass, you know that, right? Why you offered to make the speech again this year is beyond me.”

“I’m making the speech because this event is not about me and my bloody ex-boyfriend,” Draco snaps, unable to quell his anxiety fuelled irritation. “It’s for charity. This is about helping people who don’t have the support network we do.”

“Wow,” Blaise leans in and places a soft kiss to Draco’s cheekbone, taking him by surprise. He swallows on the lump in his throat and draws in a deep breath, willing his muscles to relax. “You got all soft on me.”

“Sorry, I’m not quite in the mood.”

“Ha ha,” Blaise pokes him in the ribs. “You know if I tried I could have you screaming my name.”

“Don’t be crass,” Draco huffs, but feels a smirk twitching the corners of his mouth regardless.

“You know what you’re going to say?”

“What sort of socialite do you take me for?” Draco says, only mildly offended. “Of course I know what I’m going to say.”

“Just… look, they’re going to be talking about your relationship with Potter when you’re on the carpet. The papers tomorrow are going to be intolerable. Maybe its best if I walk with Pansy? Might help you to separate your image from everyone else’s for a bit. I don’t want to throw you out to the wolves on your own, but perhaps it might do you some good.”

“I was going to suggest that anyway.” Draco runs one hand through his hair, checking his face in the wingmirror again. “I’m representing the Malfoy name at this event tonight. And I spend far too much time leaning on others.”

“Top lad,” Blaise slaps his thigh but his hand stays there for the duration of the trip, pressure grounding and comforting. By the time they pull up around the back of the venue for Blaise to exit the car and find Pansy, Draco is feeling like he could actually get through this.

“I’ll see you in ten,” Blaise says through the window, and Draco just nods. He pats the car once, and Alonso, his driver, makes a U turn for the frontline. The flashes pierce the blackout glass as they reach their destination, but Draco wets his lips, swigs heavy on the bottle of water he’s been nursing, and doesn’t hesitate as someone opens his door for him, stepping out.

He’ll never quite get used to the wall of sound that hits the second his foot touches the red carpet, never grow fully accustomed to the overwhelming onslaught of camera shutters and people screaming his name for comment, attempting to get a reaction out of him.

He blocks it out and remembers who he is.

Heir to the Malfoy name and fortune, and tonight, a patron of the Be The Change charity raising money to support young people and their families in orphanages and broken homes wrecked by the war.

He tucks one hand in the pocket of his trousers and paints on his Malfoy smile, nodding to people, stopping every two metres as is required for press purposes.

Half way down, he spots Granger stood in a gorgeous suit, killer heels making her at least five inches taller than what she actually is. She’s had a buzz cut done, dark brown skin shining where golden highlighter has been applied to the line of her cheekbones, lips painted red.

“Greetings, worm,” Draco says, placing a hand on her waist. She startles only slightly, before settling when she registers his presence, grinning up at him.

“Draco,” she says, kissing his cheek and threading her own arm around his waist. They pose for a few seconds at a time.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I might murder the next person who asks me that.”

“I was referring to the flu,” she laughs slightly, “but I would love to see you try to lay a finger on me maliciously and keep it.”

He has to admit, she’s right. He couldn’t kill her if he tried, and he’d most certainly lose at least two of his limbs.

“Apologies,” he says, keeping the smile on his mouth for the cameras.

“Understandable. This can’t be the easiest night of your life so far.”

“I’ve had much worse. Don’t fret, Granger. I won’t sabotage the ceremony.”

“I never thought you would,” she says softly, hand squeezing at the curve of his hip before she lets go. “Let’s get a drink in you and you can unclench.”

“I love you,” he says very quietly, and she snorts as his hand presses to the small of her back and they make their way up the stairs.

* * *

 

He goes through the motions of what is expected of him at events like this. He shakes hands and smiles winningly, kissing cheeks and asking about business and children and wives and husbands whilst expertly deflecting questions about his own life.

He doesn’t see Potter, but he knows he’s in the room. He can feel the presence like a code in his DNA and by the time everyone is seated and waiting for him to talk, he very much hates the world and wants to die.

Someone comes to get him, tells him he’s on in two minutes, that he’s got five to get through the speech. Blaise finds him whilst he’s stood at the side of the stage, talking to him in low murmurs that soothe out the intense anxiety returning.

Then someone clinks a spoon against a glass and he’s moving.

“Good evening,” he says, saluting the room, offering a wink to make it feel less imposing. “I’d say that I hope everyone is enjoying themselves, but the alarming rate of decreasing alcohol stocks answers the question for me.”

There’s a surrounding chuckle that helps him to relax into it further.

“We’re here tonight, as you all know, to raise funds for the young people and their families who have been affected by the violence and destruction the war caused. I have said it before, but as ever, it doesn’t quite feel adequate to simply apologise for the part I played in those years of suffering. It has been only four years; and whilst some would say that is enough to recover from the trauma, I have seen first-hand how some still struggle to come to grips with what happened.”

“We have this event every year, and every year it pushes out the dark a little more. What you give to Be The Change cannot erase the devastation, but it can give food and water and a roof to those who can’t work due to mental illness or difficult circumstances. It can give orphanages housing the children left without parents the means to expand and support its residents, and provide them with therapy and medication and emotional aid that will allow them to have secure, loving childhoods.”

“When Potter came to me six months after the war with this idea, I thought he might be being to idealistic. Mental illness can prevent people from accepting, wanting, or asking for help. It can make people stubborn and frightened to allow light in when the dark is all they know. As always however, he proved me wrong. I remember being sat in a board room with several other potential patrons trying to work out how this would operate, and feeling something. Something disquieting and more magical than anything they could teach us in a classroom. It felt as though, after so long of living beneath a storm cloud, the sun was peeking through.”

“The decision to go ahead with this campaign and set up the charity turned out to be an extremely easy one after that. And half a decade later, the charity has helped thousands of people come to terms with their trauma and start to rebuild their lives. This is what you are donating to today. Not a bank account, not an establishment; but an idea. A simple idea that grew into something more special and important than I ever could have imagined.”

“Most of you will know I don’t make a habit of throwing flattery, credit, or compliments at Harry Potter.”

Another resounding laugh and some cheeky, gossipy muttering. Draco’s eyes wonder the crowd of their own accord, and for the first time since he arrived, they meet the familiar green. Potter is sat in his seat staring slightly dumfounded, with the beginning of a smile is curving at his mouth.

“However, he was the man who did dare to imagine it,” Draco draws in a discreetly shaky breath and swallows to wet his throat. “As always, he made the impossible a reality. Despite differences, I am more than alright with giving credit where credit is due. He doesn’t put the toilet seat down or do the washing up, and he leaves his socks in a dirty pile until they smell like a dead animal.”

“But he is undoubtedly the kindest and most dedicated person I have ever known. And whilst my eleven-year-old self might have a heart attack if he could hear me talking right now, he is my best friend. So, without further ado, feel free to not applaud the great idiot; welcome the founder of Be The Change, Harry Potter.”

The room fills with roaring applause despite himself, and Granger has to nudge Potter to get him to stand the fuck up. Draco hadn’t prepared for this, although he knew the moment would come. Potter sprints up the steps like nothing is wrong, but the terrified look on his face he hides as he ducks it away from the crowd tells Draco different.

On last minute impulse, he tugs Potter in for a tight hug.

It doesn’t last more than two seconds, but he feels Potter’s body unwind and the long exhale of air against his neck. He pulls away with a smile meant solely for him, reassuring and one he hopes communicates everything he’s feeling. His hands linger on Potter’s waist for a moment and he pats his cheek affectionately before moving past him and knowing in his gut, however awkward or stuttery Potter gets now, he’ll have every single person in attendance standing by the end of it.

* * *

 

[Harry finds Draco](https://open.spotify.com/track/1dD1aarWotVIiFo5gGdMc2) two hours later, sat outside in the smoking areas nursing a glass of champagne and a cigarette and looking at the stars.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Draco’s eyelids flicker and he turns his head as Harry climbs to sit on the wall with him, grounds of green shrouded in inky black in front of them. He lights his own cigarette and shifts so the sides of their bodies are pressed together, sharing warmth.

“I’m offended. They’re worth far more than a penny, Potter.”

“I dunno,” he teases half-heartedly, sighing despite himself. “Depends. What are they?”

“Now you’re defeating the object.”

“Of course I am,” Harry smirks, breathing in deep and letting the nicotine hit his blood stream. “But you shouldn’t be smoking. You’re still getting over the flu.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Draco insists, wetting his chapped lips. Harry watches, a little transfixed as his breath escapes from the lips he used to kiss every day and swirls visible in the air. “And I’m thinking about going on holiday.”

“Oh?” Harry feels a twinge of panic. The phrase is so subjective and holidays can mean months, especially when it comes to Draco and the fact that he’s feeling snowed down enough to want to escape and run away.

“France is beautiful this time of year.”

“I suppose.”

“No need to look so dejected, Potter. Two weeks is enough for me.”

“Well,” Harry says, feeling better immediately, “I know you’ve been overwhelmed recently.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Draco says, a bitterness to his tone that irks Harry, even if he knows he deserves it.

“This is because of the ring, isn’t it?”

“Oh, now you want to acknowledge that? No it not because of the ring. This is because I’m tired and I need a fucking break.”

“From me?”

“Yes!” Draco blasts, but doesn’t move away. He just turns his head to make sudden eye contact. “God forbid I find out that my ex-boyfriend didn’t tell me he was going to propose to me before he _left_ me, and want to go far away for a little while.”

There’s silence then, and Harry’s heart aches. He looks away and closes his eyes to stop the wetness from gathering in them, trying to even out his breathing again.

“I understand.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“That’s a lie.”

Draco looks like he’s going to retort, but his mouth hangs open for a second before he closes it and stares back out at the sky.

“You already do. I never had to ask you to.”

“You never will,” Harry tells him. “I know you. I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to make excuses, especially not to me.”

“Yet here we are,” Draco throws his arms up and then lets them drop hopelessly, jolting Harry slightly.

“It’s – I think – it won’t be this hard forever.”

“I should bloody well hope not.”

“Maybe you should go permanently,” Harry hates the words on his own tongue. They fill his every cell with agony.

“You want me to?”

“No!” Harry growls at himself, putting his face in his hands and rubbing at his eyes. “Jesus this is difficult. No, of course I don’t want you to go permanently. But it’s not doing you any good being here. We have the same friends, Draco. We go to the same places. And its selfish as fuck for me to keep asking you to come over at god knows what time in the morning to kill _spiders_ for me.”

“For fuck sake, Potter,” Draco curses. “I wouldn’t do it if I had a real problem with it. That’s irrelevant anyway. It’s not the bloody spiders. Its…”

“It’s me.”

“Still no. I thought you were supposed to know me better than anyone? It doesn’t even really have anything to do with you. It’s me. I’m still bloody in love with you, and it’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.”

The stars twinkle down, backdropping the moon, and Harry’s bones feel too old for his body. His lungs feel like they’re dying, but his blood sings with the words tumbling from Draco’s lips. Love. He still loves him. After Harry left and gave up on them, after the world felt like it ended.

The longing is back stronger than ever. That pull that had always caused him to orbit Draco Malfoy like the sun and the moon. For as long as he can remember it’s been there, and the only thing that had lessened the pain of resisting it was when he had let himself be guided in. But it had been scary. So scary it had frozen him enough to make him run. And the pull had returned with a vengeance. Now he feels it like it’s all that exists in the universe.

The very core of his being is desperately begging him to just reach out. To stop being such a fucking coward.

“And now I look like a total twat because you don’t-”

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just shut up. For once in your life. Shut up for one moment.”

Draco looks furious but does as he’s told, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. He’s still beautiful though, his porcelain skin glowing under the night sky, the sharp cut of his face softened despite his anger. Harry feels breathless again, but adrenaline pumps through his veins and he gulps down on a lump in his throat, static electricity buzzing between them as Draco catches on to what’s going through Harry’s head.

“I told you that you should never think for one moment that I didn’t love you.”

“You _said_ it.”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry says, quiet now. He moves so he’s straddling the wall and facing Draco, looking him straight in the eye. “Not once did I tell you I didn’t love you. Because its – I _do_. You absolute… _fuck_ , I can’t believe I didn’t just – right; something you have to understand, okay? Something important. I love you. I am in love with you. That never stopped or changed or faltered. I loved you in the beginning and I love you now. I didn’t leave because I suddenly forgot that or anything. I left because I was a pussy and I should have just talked to you about how I was feeling.”

Draco looks like his brain is going to implode. Harry feels very similar if he’s being honest. By the time he’s finished rambling, he’s almost hyperventilating, like he can’t get enough air, like everything is suffocating and all he can do is sit and watch and wait and panic.

Draco moves then, softly but efficiently, so they’re facing each other head on, legs bestride the concrete. He reaches out and takes Harry’s hands in his lap, pressing their foreheads together.

“Breathe with me,” he says firmly and clearly, cutting through the fog threatening to drown Harry. The pressure of his fingers where they curl around him is anchoring and he finds just enough of a grip on reality to focus. “In. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Again…”

Slowly but surely, Harry feels himself settling back into his body, the tightness around his internal organs easing. It makes him dizzy, but Draco lets go of his hands and brings his own up to cradle the sides of his face, thumbs brushing the line of his jaw. Lips kiss between his brows and he draws in one last full body breath before opening his eyes again.

“You are quite possibly the biggest idiot I have ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

Involuntarily, Harry starts laughing. Its fine at first, but then it gets a bit hysterical and he drops forward, burying his face in Draco’s shoulder. Draco’s palm splays over the back of his head and he uses the smell of his cologne to come back to himself again.

“I’m sorry,” Harry manages eventually. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

“I love you.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“I – can you forgive me?”

“Are you stupid?” Draco says, “of course I can, you oaf. You forgave me for everything I did.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Harry insists desperately, frustrated he still can’t articulate, “they’re separate and it can’t be like that. I’m tired of the miscommunication. Forget whatever happened before I left, like the war never happened and we’re just two guys who fell in love. Can you forgive me for this?”

“Yes.”

There’s no hesitation, no need for space or thinking.

“Are you sure?”

“Can you forgive yourself, Potter? Otherwise anything from this point onwards is going to be a repeat of last time. And don’t even think of asking me to marry you right now, because I know that’s going through your head.”

Harry is shocked for a moment as Draco snatches the words straight from his mouth before they’ve formed. It takes him a beat, but he realises almost immediately that yes, it is a very bad idea to ask that question. Right now, anyway. Maybe in six months, or ten, or a year. But not right now.

“I think so.”

“Good. Because you’re taking me out next week and I know you’re a martyr, but we’re doing this right this time.”

And oh. That… that sounds like something. Like acceptance. Like understanding. There’s anger there still, but they can work on that. Properly. They can talk about it for as long as they need to, until their throats hurt and their tongues feel numb. They have the time. This is what Draco is saying, Harry realises. He’s giving him the time.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Why are you asking me?” Draco snorts, rolling his eyes, and then without a beat, his fingers curl around the back of Harry’s neck and pull him forward, their lips connecting.

Its hesitant to begin with, uncertain, and a bit out of practice. But then Harry’s heart stutters and his blood warms and his stomach lurches and he _remembers_.

Then there’s nothing holding him back.

Draco breathes in sharply through his nose and Harry takes the opportunity to alter the angle and its wet and languid and open and desperate. The cold of the night is forgotten as Draco moves forward more, his fingers bunching in the back of Harry’s hair. He swallows the whimper that catches in Draco’s throat, hands grabbing at the lapels of Draco’s blazer to steady himself.

Everything is hazy and hot, yet wired at the same time. He involuntarily arches inward and Draco’s hand comes to press at the curve of the movement, biting softly on Harry’s bottom lip, making his trousers suddenly very tight and uncomfortable.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps as they come up for air, foreheads leant together again, their grip on each other infallible, even with their eyes hooded and their senses fogged.

“Good to know I’m still a drug for you.”

“Shut up,” Harry means to snap, but it comes out as a dry, throaty chuckle, huffing as he kisses him again, rougher and surer, but shorter. Draco pretends to snap his teeth at the tip of Harry’s nose and he nudges him back a bit in retaliation.

“I love you,” Harry has to say again, because its important and his heart needs to have it known.

“Hmm.”

“Draco.”

“What? Oh you’re so needy. I love you too, you dickhead.”

Harry lifts one leg back over the wall again and drags Draco into him, bringing his head to his shoulder. He revels in the way his fingers feel softly cording through Draco’s hair.

“What now?”

“You’ll have to give me a minute.”

Harry frowns, confused for a second before his eyes catch on the bulge at his crotch, and he purses his lips.

“Stop preening. You’re ridiculous.”

“Everyone in that room is quite aware of the situation anyway,” Harry reminds him, pressing another lingering kiss to the top of Draco’s head, just because he can. “I actually really want to go home and watch TV for a bit.”

“You’re twenty-four, Potter,” Draco snorts. “You sound like an old man.”

“You’re going to tell me you’d prefer to go back in there and pretend like what happened didn’t just happen for another two hours? The event supervisors have it covered anyway.”

Draco waits a second to answer, and when he does, he sits up straighter, breaking body contact to yawn and stretch, looking exhausted, but not unhappy. He's so beautiful in that moment, Harry feels warm and rather enchanted. He's everything, suddenly. The sun, the stars.

The moon.

"It knows," Harry says, unable to stop himself.

"What?" Draco raises his eyebrows, befuddled. "What knows what?"

Harry blinks himself out of the moment, laughing to himself slightly and shaking his head.

"Nothing," he says, feeling his body move with the deep, cleansing breath he takes in. "Just something I read once. Just - reminded me of it. Made me realise what it was talking about. Coffee and bed?”

“Coffee and bed,” Draco agrees, pushing his hand down on Harry’s scalp to shamelessly push himself up to standing height. Harry attempts to bat him away but he just pushes harder.

They don’t actually make it to bed, just drift off curled around each other in front of Mock The Week, their drinks half consumed on the table.

All is not well, but they go to sleep confident that they’re in the right lane.


End file.
